That is certainly one of the toughest things about grieving while caring for a toddler. Grief isn't something you can schedule- it just doesn't work that way- it comes and goes as it pleases. I mean, I grieve every moment of each day, but it's mostly internal. So, I have to try to save up the external (crying, moaning) for nap time, or after bed time. And then it's not always there. I want to do this the right way- the healthiest way- so that my grieving process doesn't need to be any longer than it has to be. For Audrey's sake. But where to fit the grieving in between reading stories in a happy voice about pigs and elephants, or singing Mary Had a Little Lamb?
But for some reason, not every time, but most times when I turn on the shower- the stream of the water releases the grief in me.
I touch the tiles on the shower wall with both hands. I kneel down and speak to you and cry out to you.
"You died. You never came home. Audrey and I are alone now."
Because that is who I most want to tell and process with more than anyone else- you.
And often, like today- I feel you there. I feel your comfort and I hear words as if they are dropped into my head.
Today you told me that you're with Audrey in a way you never could have been while you were alive and that you won't miss anything. You also told me that she will grow up to be a very special and amazing woman- and I sensed a pride in your tone and a smile on your face.
Would I conjure up these thoughts myself in my own head? Who knows- I guess anything's possible- but I thought I would write them down nonetheless. If somehow- either through God's grace or through our own spiritual connection I'd had signs of the future before- the comment I made about not wanting to be a pregnant widow, the thoughts I had all year asking God if he was preparing me for your death and to be a single mom- then why not now?
Today as I kneeled there in the shower, with the water beating down on my head, I felt so small- I guess I've lost a lot of weight in the past few weeks- with my arms wrapped around my knees, I felt so tiny- like I might disappear too.